


passenger (i wish i could hold you closer)

by eternal_elenea



Category: Tennis RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-29
Updated: 2013-01-29
Packaged: 2017-11-27 10:15:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,811
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/660801
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eternal_elenea/pseuds/eternal_elenea
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>His shirt says "Prepare, Attack, Destroy" and that would be a lot easier to do if it weren't for Nole's smile.</p>
            </blockquote>





	passenger (i wish i could hold you closer)

**Author's Note:**

> Post AO 2013. Inspired in no small part by [Let Her Go](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RBumgq5yVrA) by Passenger. Also, warning for complete negligence of Kim, who just did not fit into this fic (and thus probably does not functionally exist in this universe), but whom I love to pieces nevertheless.

It's only after he's lost him that Andy even registers what it meant in the first place.

Novak's always been there, as long as Andy can remember, since they were eleven in the south of France and Novak was little more than limbs and brush-bristle hair and exaggerated hand gestures (and, and, a smile).

He knows that it's better for his game. "Prepare, Attack, Destroy" says his t-shirt the day before, says Ivan in the weeks of winter, training in Miami. It's better to think of them as enemies; as competitors to a single throne. (Not as friends.)

It's better; it should be easier; except.

 

 

 

Novak greets him in Melbourne with a clasp of his fingers around Andy's side, like always, and the only change is in Andy's mind, but that's always been the important thing.

This is a winding road, this relationship, and it always has been, bumpy with emotions and rivalries and star-crossed fates. It's been a winding road and it's still not over, but Andy's never liked change, has only ever held on too tightly, too reluctant to release his fingers, clenched around unnamable somethings that he can't, he _won't_ , let go of.

Novak hugs him, lets go without regret, smiles without bitterness.

Andy lives in long glances, in feelings that he shouldn't have, in past triumphs and future failings.

 

 

 

"Hey, man," says Novak, boisterous, but Andy can see the way that his palm lingers on Andy's shoulder, can see the weary lines around Novak's eyes.

"Yeah, hey," says Andy back, goes to brush past him like he knows that he should.

"No, no, wait," Novak says, and he's still smiling, but it's too serious suddenly, too serious. "Andy, wait."

"You did not call?" he says and it's a statement and a question at once, fingers warm around Andy's wrist, brows lowered.

He's always been too quick to pick up on Andy's casualness, too good at reading Andy's distance as emotion and his easy closeness as a brush-off. And Andy doesn't know why he does it, except that he doesn't know how to do anything else, especially not with Novak; he's pretty sure that Novak's just always been able to see him too well.

"We are going to talk soon, yes?" Novak says, pointed, and Andy doesn't nod, but Novak's never taken no as an answer anyway.

 

 

 

They don't end up talking so much as they end up tangled in a heap on Novak's bed, legs and blankets twined together, like they're teenagers in a newly found love, except that's not what they are at all. And Andy's not sharp-edged, certainly not like he used to be back when they _were_ teenagers, still caught up in each other, but he doesn't think he's ever pushed harder, scrabbling at Novak's clothes and biting a mark into Novak's shoulder. He doesn't think he's ever been more aware of what there is to lose and what he can't gain.

And he watches the lazy smirk on Novak's lips, and he expects Novak to smile brighter than the light in the early dawn, and he waits for the too obvious joke about being aggressive, except that before Novak can say it, Andy clasps his hand around Novak's hip, draws out a gasp with his own mouth.

"Andy," says Nole, too tender, grinning until Andy can't help but smile back; flits his fingers over the curve of Andy's cheek, his jaw, soft.

"You _fuck_ ," Andy says, later, as Novak fingers into him, means it and doesn't mean it and wants to kiss him until they both can't breathe.

And later, when Novak's sleeping, all soft edges and dark eyelashes, he thinks the words that he will never say, what he bites back between his teeth when it threatens to escape.

 

 

 

"They are your competition," says Ivan, as soon as he sees the position Novak occupies on Andy's speed dial, "your enemies, not your friends."

 It's the first lesson that Ivan's taught Andy that he doesn't want to learn.

 He nods.

 

 

 

Andy doesn't make his way through the draw quietly, but the British media have never been anything if not loud. All of the headlines that he doesn't read probably proclaim him as "US Open Champion", as the court announcer always does, and if there were ever a chance for him to be forgotten, it's long past.

Novak doesn't either, but that's expected too, by now, and Andy watches too many hours of his matches, hears the roar of the crowd, and the sound of Novak's voice in exertion and triumph, watches him with too much fondness as he makes jokes at Jim Courier. Andy's not supposed to do this, not supposed to think of him like this, but, but, but.

But, he's never been able to stop himself, clenches his jaw even as he doesn't mean to; wants for Novak like he's never wanted for anyone but himself.

 

 

 

He stays up late into the night, watches as Novak and Wawrinka go deep into a fifth, and his fingers are white-knuckled and nausea bubbles up inside of him and he hopes, hopes, hopes for an outcome he can't guarantee. Novak finally, he _finally_ breaks, and it's already past 1 a.m. and Andy should have gone to bed hours ago, has a match tomorrow, but he can't think past the crest of relief.

He picks up the phone when Novak's won, 12-10, and writes a text to Novak before he can even think about it. Types out, "congrats u were great. b home soon? xx" but he can't ask Novak that, ends up deleting the whole thing altogether, instead sending just the measly "congrats". It's not enough, not at all what he means, but.

And if he misses the warmth of Novak under him as he falls asleep, well, he won't admit it to anyone (not even himself).

 

 

 

Sometime in the rush of quarterfinals, Andy brushes his fingers over the small of Nole's back, the side of his wrist, and Novak grins at him, blinding, wraps an arm around him in the empty corridor and draws him close.

Andy turns towards him, brings him in even closer, until they're hugging, pressed together from shoulder to thigh, and it's so easy that Andy can't help but exhale like a sigh, can't help the way that he holds on for longer than he should.

And Novak's eyes are warm and his breath is damp against Andy's cheek and Andy can't imagine giving this up, not for anything, not for anyone — but that's something he's never been allowed to want.

He pulls away, overthinks it just like he overthinks everything, but for all of that, the warmth doesn't leave his chest as Nole waves.

 

 

 

It isn't really until the day before his semifinal that he realizes the final means _Novak_ , even though he's known that all along.

And that night, when Novak comes to his room, still slick from his post-match shower, still bright with victory and want, Andy wants to push him away, wants to push him away, but can't.

He doesn’t think, "I have to beat you," as he pulls Novak bodily towards him, grasping at his waist and tugging him into a kiss, doesn’t remember Ivan’s voice in his head, telling him to let go; he won’t forget the way that Novak eyes go wide with pleasure as Andy pushes into him.

Andy pretends, pretends, that these things don’t happen, but the truth is that they do; and Andy promises himself that he won’t let it show, but there’s no doubt that it does. And for how surely it must shine in Andy’s eyes as Novak looks up at him, spread across the bed, Novak closes first his eyes and then his lips, doesn't say a word, doesn’t say a word, doesn't say a word.

 

 

 

Andy beats Roger, takes an ice bath, finishes press. Andy returns to his hotel room, sleeps, ignoring the knock on the door of his suite, pretends that this day isn’t different from the past twelve.

 

 

 

He loses the final, but it's not because of Novak.

Well, he loses the final, but it's not because of the two of them.

Because:

 

 

 

"I can't do this anymore," says Andy, his voice monotone, but that doesn't mean anything, except for how it does.

And he expects Novak to say something more, expects him to _do_ something more, but Novak leaves like it's easy and Andy can't figure out if that's because he doesn't care or because he knows Andy will just come crawling back.

He smashes his hand against the dresser when Novak's gone but doesn't draw blood; he doesn't cry but his jaw clenches and his eyes close and he can’t sleep. And Andy would change it, would take it back, except that it’s already been too late for longer than he can remember.

 

 

 

They spend the next day in too close quarters: warming up within twenty feet of the other, glancing at each other as they go through their routines, walking out onto court together.

Novak doesn't say anything to him, except for a quick "good luck" before they head out and Andy can't even manage that.

They don't talk to each other for all that they've said about each other, for all that they _could_.

"Is it enough?" Andy thinks.

 

 

 

But: he loses the final, he loses the final, he loses the final.

But: Novak fights, oh, he fights, just not for Andy.

 

 

 

They've fought in the past and they've made up and they've fought and made up and fought. And Andy'd thought that they'd done everything that it was possible to do in a friendship, in a relationship, but maybe they've got to do it again for it to sink in.

Maybe it’s not enough for him to keep spinning in this dance that feels never-ending, to drop and pick up and push this relationship past any boundaries it might have ever had.

And maybe this isn’t the last time but maybe it is; maybe they’ve had everything, but maybe haven’t at all. (Maybe someday they finally will.)

Because if what Andy is feeling isn’t hope, then he doesn’t have another word for it besides agony. If Novak is really done, if they’re really finished, Andy wouldn’t have a clue what to make of the last fifteen years, except to call it fate.

 

 

“sorry,” Andy types too many days later, getting on the plane to go back home, and he doesn’t think, doesn’t think, sends it with a press of his finger.

It’s still not enough, he doesn’t know even know what he’s apologizing for, but it’s all Andy can do, the only thing that Andy can even think.

 

 

 

"Love you," he never says into Novak's ribs, when they're lying together in the still night and Andy can almost pretend that it would be okay if he did.


End file.
